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My mom’s voice remains flat.
“Are you going to let us in?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Of course.”
I have a sense of foreboding as they slowly trudge up the five flights of stairs. I can’t imagine why they would cross over into the city from Jersey. They have to know this is an epicenter for the virus.
The knock comes and when I open the door, Maeve and Donald look very somber.
“Mom, Dad, come in. What’s wrong? Is someone sick? Is it Uncle Earl?” I ask.
They are both out of breath, huffing and puffing after the climb. Mom’s gray hair is coiled into a neat bun and Dad is in desperate need of a haircut because his white fringe now covers the tops of his ears
“No, no one is sick, Whitney. We need to talk,” my mom says.
Apollo limps up to my mother, meowing his greeting.
“What happened to him?” she asks, reaching down to stroke his head.
“Oh, uh…” I scramble to make up another lie. “There was a jagged piece of metal poking out from the radiator, next to the window where he likes to sit. He must have caught his paw on it.”
“Let me take a look at that for you,” my dad offers, heading towards Apollo’s favorite perch.
“It’s ok, Dad. I had maintenance fix it.”
He eyes the radiator and the window. Oh shit. The radiator isn’t even very close to the window. They’re five feet apart, but I merely smile helplessly and shrug.
I realize I have nothing in the house to offer them to eat or drink because I haven’t been staying here. This has never happened before, and I hope they don’t notice. My heart is racing with anxiety and I have a bad feeling about this surprise visit.
“What’s going on, guys? I’ve missed you both so much but you really shouldn’t have come all this way and put yourselves at risk.”
Maeve and Donald share a look.
“Well, sweetheart,” my dad begins, “your mom came to me with some concerns. She says you’ve been a little strange on the phone lately. She says your phone camera is broken so she hasn’t been able to do the video talking thing with you, and then when she calls, you never really have much to say and you rush to get off the phone.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve just been so busy with takeout and delivery,” I say quickly. “You know that SugarTime is struggling to survive right now.”
“And then there’s that,” my mother speaks now, much more firmly than my father. There is no endearment attached, and her tone is clipped and abrupt.
“Whitney, where have you been getting the money you’ve been sending us? Your website says you’re closed and that you’re not doing take-out or delivery. But now you say that you are. Why are you lying to us?”
My palms are sweaty. I don’t know what to do.
“No, no, the website’s wrong. I am doing delivery. I’m just bad at updating my page, that’s all.”
My parents stare suspiciously at me, and I even throw in my original GoFundMe lie.
“I set up a GoFundMe for my employees and I’ve just been sending you some of that money. They all know, and they don’t mind. You shouldn’t have to go to the food bank. It’s not right. You guys have worked hard your entire lives, and that’s not necessary.”
Maeve and Donald share another look.
“When did my child start lying to me so easily?” my mother asks, and I feel hot tears stinging my eyes. “Why is this happening?”
My dad interjects.
“We checked Whitney, and there is no GoFundMe page.”
“It’s private!” I flounder.
“That’s enough, Whitney,” Donald says flatly. “It’s time to be honest. Have you gotten yourself in with some drug dealers? Is that where all this cash is coming from?”
“What? No!” My father must be binge watching crime dramas on TV again.
“Then what, Whitney? Where could you possibly be getting thousands of dollars when most of the country is shut down? You’ve sent us nearly five thousand dollars. It’s more than we even need.”
I stammer.
“I met a wealthy man and he’s been giving me money,” I mumble in the hopes that this partial truth will allay them.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Maeve and Donald look at each other, completely puzzled.
“But why would this man just give you money? People don’t give you money without expecting something in return. Are you sure he isn’t a drug dealer? Is he using this apartment to store some of his illicit substances?” Donald asks, glancing around the room like there’s cocaine hidden in my walls. If I weren’t so anxious, it would be funny.
“No, Dad, he isn’t a drug dealer. He works in restaurants too.” Then I sigh. Maybe it’s better to be direct. I’ll just omit some of the risqué details. “Okay, his name is Peter Coleman and he owns Shake Place.”
“Which one? The one here in Manhattan?” Donald asks.
